You guys. I’m ill. Like seriously ill. That’s why I’ve been so quiet. If you’ve written to me and have had radio silence from me, maybe it’s because you’re an asshole, but it’s most likely because I’m really bloody sick. Before you freak out, no it’s not Covid. God knows I’ve had enough PCR tests to last me a lifetime over the past 4 weeks. It’s really unpleasant having a massive Q tip swabbing your tonsils and then your nostrils. Just saying. For the past four weeks, I’ve just been listening to Lil Wayne A Milli on repeat. And then just as loud as my lungs will let me, scream out “Motherf*cker I’m ill”. It makes me feel so cool. I’m not cool. I’m Forty remember? My kids are sick of listening to Lil Wayne and beg me to play something else.
But anyway, what are you so ill with I can hear you asking. Well, I’m ill with a chest infection. Like a really bad one. I’ve been on antibiotics and everything. I’ve discovered the elixir of life. It’s called Robitussin. Robitussin is the nectar of the gods. It tastes like coke and toothpaste. The first time you taste it, you will think you have died and gone to hell. But then it will soothe your throat and break up your phlegm and you will wonder why you have never had this magical liquid in your life before. Then you will go to your local chemist and buy big bottles of Robitussin because that one time you ran out of Robitussin at 1am and you were genuinely worried you might die.
But in all seriousness, this illness has been awful. I still can’t shake it. It’s been about 4 weeks and I am miserable. Every night I hawk up a lung. Chump gets really mad at me because I tend to hawk up a lung in his direction. I huff and I puff and I can’t breathe. I’m wheezy all the time. My lungs are part of a symphony. They can hit all the notes at the same time. Girl even kicked me out of her room one night as I was trying to put her to bed. I’m not going to lie, that hurt my feelings. Most nights, I’m huffing and puffing and wheezing and my lungs are crackling. Chump gets really angry with me and tells me to take an inhaler. I’m not asthmatic. I don’t want to take an inhaler. But I take an inhaler because my doctor actually told me to take an inhaler regularly for the next 3 weeks because my lungs are still inflamed. I stupidly asked if I can exercise again and the doctor laughed in my face and told me to take it easy for now, as being able to breathe is a pretty high priority at the moment. If you know me, you know how much I love my Peloton. Not being able to use it feels like physical torture for me. But I also have mild PTSD when I look at it, as I suddenly remember what it feels like to be breathless and I panic. I also am now super afraid of nighttime, as when I was in the throws of my infection, I would wake up, gasping for breath, feeling as though I was inhaling really sharp blades. Chump would have to calm me down and force the inhaler on me. Three weeks later, I still wake up in the middle of the night in a blind panic, thinking I can’t breathe and Chump has to calm me down and pat my back. Now he doesn’t force the inhaler on me, but he begs me to take it. After about a half hour of panicking and hawking my lungs up, I then relent and take the inhaler, in addition to the magical liquid bestowed by Heaven itself. Robitussin. Then I finally fall back asleep. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking God you’re a moron. You’re right. I’m not a very gracious sick person. It is miserable. Like F*cking miserable.
I’m usually a very optimistic person. For those of you that know me, now is when you laugh your head off and think really- You? an Optimist. Yes, I try very hard not to show my optimism to the world, but internally, I’m super optimistic and resilient. And despite my best efforts, I also have a growth mindset. That’s why I started tae kwon do (which I haven’t been able to do in 4 weeks, because of you know, breathing). I’m re-learning the piano. And I’m about to start dance lessons. Partly because I want to stave off Alzheimer’s, but also because why not? Anyway, this illness has completely floored me. It has knocked whatever optimism and hope I have. I can’t talk myself out of this illness. I can’t find a silver lining. I normally try to focus on something positive and then find that whatever the problem is, it just sorts itself out. Or I try to think, ok what do I need to learn from all of this and then focus on whatever I need to learn and then move on. But this time around, I can’t find anything positive. I don’t know what to learn and I keep on saying to myself “why God why?” or “You’re not helping me. Why are you not helping me? Don’t you love me?” I know, it’s first world problems ok. But I am so f*cking miserable. I’m sick of thinking that coke flavoured toothpaste is delicious.
Listen, I’m fine ok. Don’t message me and see how I’m doing. I won’t answer. I’ll be too busy chugging down Robitussin and training my lungs to perform Symphony No. 5 to write you back.
